So here he stood under the harsh light of the covered bus stop, waiting for what would hopefully be a bus that got him closer to that dump of a house he lived in now. Truth be told, he might end up riding buses half the night just trying to find his way back to his own area.
[Imogen Slaughter] "The bus doesn't stop 'ere right now," Imogen's voice is even, almost neutral as she approaches the mouth of the bus shelter, coming to step at its edge.
She is dressed like she might have come from the office, though the hours are well past office hours. Black slacks, a blouse beneath a tailored suit jacket. Her hair is vibrant, flaming and bright, her skin pale, her eyes dark, though the light from the shelter catches the irides, flaring in the deep blue.
"It's an express."
[Roman Turner] "What's that mean?"
His first thought was, it meant it was a really fast bus. Then the other thought came tumbling out.
"It doesn't work anymore?"
He was in a long sleeved button down shirt of white with thin brown stripes running vertically. Jeans, boots and a befuddled, worn out look on his face. It had been one heck of a long day of which he had spent over half of it lost. True enough, he hated the big city. Everything was so damned confusing and most streets didn't even seem to run on true compass points.
[Imogen Slaughter] "It only stops 'ere at certain times o' the day," she answers concisely, one hand lifting to adjust the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. "S'for rush hour only, really."
The kinwoman pauses, studying the boy, her gaze detached, her eyes shrewd.
"Headed back t'the Green, are you?"
[Roman Turner] "Yeah, back to the pit. Only I had hoped to save some shoe leather."
Mumbling.
"Besides not sure which way."
His voice lifted again as he pushed up from the bench inside the little shelter.
"Dang, I best get moving."
[Imogen Slaughter] "C'mon," Imogen tilts her head sharply away from the bus shelter. "I'll gi' you a lift."
[Roman Turner] He couldn't help the big beaming smile that flashed.
"Why thank you Miss Doctor Slaughter, Ma'am. Ya won't tell my cousin, will ya?"
[Imogen Slaughter] The smile is not returned - Imogen remains as solemn as ever. It is not hard to see why most of the Sept might consider her cold at best, a bitch at worst. Why so many might meet her and assume she does not like them, or that she is in some way disagreeable.
A charming smile from a good ole country boy, and the line of her mouth does not even crack.
"I can't imagine why I would," she says.
"S'just a few blocks this way."
[Roman Turner] "Oh you don't know Sparrow like I do. She is a tricky one and if she even got wind of something to hold over my head, why, I believe she'd not stop crowing for near on a year."
He was just a few inches taller than Imogen, though broader built. And even as he made casual small talk with her, he was stealing looks at her. She was old, but she sure was pretty and he also knew she carried a gun, so he was trying to figure out where she stuck it when not pointing at someone.
[Imogen Slaughter] She pockets her hands into her blazer as they walk, more or less ignoring the frequent curious glances of the boy. She is attractive - she is purebred. She is more than accustomed to the glances of Garou and human.
She is more than accustomed to ignoring them.
"Well, I daresay I won't be mentionin' anythin' of the sort to her," she says, flicking a glance toward the Ragabash. "Not much one fer small talk, am I?" the question is rhetorical. "Makes me rather safe as a witness."
[Roman Turner] "Truth? I really don't know. I only seen ya a few times, Ma'am and generally shooting a gun. I have noticed ya don't like folk hovering and ya ain't afraid to spit it out. I find your accent interesting, it kind of reminds me of Mary Poppins, only with a burr under your saddle."
Then like any stupid kid he added.
"Though my grandma use to speak pretty plain too."
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's breath exhales sharply, her mouth twisting. "Sound like Mary Poppins, do I? Is that yer only experience with English accents?"
The comment about his grandmother, stupid or otherwise does not occasion reaction from her.
[Roman Turner] "Well, no Ma'am. There's Nanny McPhee. And er, um, Shrek!"
He beamed, proud of himself.
[Imogen Slaughter] The look Imogen gives Roman is something akin to the look a pet owner might give a dog who has done something very startling, confusing and possibly a little disgusting.
"At least Mary Poppins was English," she says.
A pause, before adding: "And not an animation."
[Roman Turner] "Nanny McPhee is not an animation. And while she had ugly teeth, a huge nose, a hump and wart, those things went away and she weren't bad looking for an old...er..older, woman in the end."
He nodded as he explained, trying to convince her.
"And ya know, she was kind of cranky like you in the start too, but that changed too....."
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's eyebrow arches up, fixing the teenager with a gimlet eye. "Yes," she says, deadpan, "Perhaps if I am lucky and learn to find joy in life, I too shall lose my hump and wart and huge nose."
[Roman Turner] "No, no, you need to watch it. She doesn't find joy. She helped others find what was inside them all along."
He shook his head, apparently deciding she just didn't get it.
"You really need to watch it sometime, Mary."
[Imogen Slaughter] ...Mary-
"Imogen," she corrects.
"I'll add it to my viewing list," she says in what sounds like a concession. "I haven't got a television, but don't fret, I'm sure I'll get one eventually."
[Roman Turner] "Tell ya what Mar..Ma'am. When we get one, I'll invite ya over for some popcorn, pop and we'll watch it. We might even talk Sparrow in to making some fried bologna sandwiches and I'll get us some ice cream. Oh! Hey! We can make root beer floats! Dang, I'm hungry."
[Imogen Slaughter] They've moved away from the main streets onto the marginally quieter sidestreets, row houses, a few condominium buildings. It is toward one of these complexes Imogen heads, leading him, not toward the building but toward the garage.
"Fried bologna sandwiches, ice cream and root beer floats," she says as she fits her key into a side door of the multi-level garage.
"Sounds positively disgusting."
[Roman Turner] "Oh it is, which is why I'm sure you'll like it. Just wait and see."
He was undaunted as he waited for her to unlock the door and enter. His feet hurt and talking about food just made him want it more.
"Anyway, it will be my way of paying ya back for the lift."
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen shakes her head slightly, opening the door and stepping inside. She holds the door just long enough to make sure Roman gets through the threshold, then lets him hold the door open for himself as she starts up the metal staircase to an upper level.
"S'not necessary," she says. "S'hardly a burden worth mentioning."
[Roman Turner] "It is necessary. Where I come from, ya pay back your debts. Someone does ya a favor, you do them two."
His footfalls rang on the stairs as he followed her up and tried not to look at her bottom because that was just so wrong in so many ways.
[Imogen Slaughter] "Tell you what," her foot fall is lighter than his, but her shoes are still audible on the metal. From below, Roman can see that Imogen carries her gun at the small of her back, the bottom of her holster visible from below, beneath the fall of her coat.
That is - if he is staring at her bottom.
Which is wrong in so many ways.
"Tell you what," she says, as she gets to the door of the next storey, turning to glance at Roman as she pulls it open, "if yeh want to return a favour - the next time I pull a weapon, don't waste time thinkin' that I'm shooting you. Turn and look t'see what I'm aimin' at so yeh know what's coming."
Her eyebrow arches as he comes up on the landing with her. "Deal?"
[Roman Turner] "Deal. Next time, now that you have told me and I have had the experience with you, I will take you on your honor that you are not trying to shoot me. Though consider this. Where I come from, if someone suddenly barks your last name and pulls a gun, odds are ten to one they are calling ya out."
His attention had moved far from her bottom when she turned and now he was having a terrible time with her on a step above him because it put him eye to breast and his face was heating up.
"We there yet?"
[Imogen Slaughter] There is perhaps a point here when an argument could be made. She could press on the perceived slight, or perhaps his unorthodox (to her) upbringing.
Imogen, instead, says nothing, tilting her head slightly toward the door. "We are," she says, turning away to step out into the garage area. "Come on."
She leads him to a car - an old beaten Volvo, unlocking her door before getting in and reaching across to unlock his. She waits until he gets inside, then starts the engine.
"Do remind me," she says as she starts out of the car. "What is your given name?"
He tells her. Now there are two mistakes that neither will make again.
She navigates the car out of the garage, down the street and toward Lakeshore drive. She takes the scenic route to Cabrini Green. There is a bit of confusion at one point - on which street Roman lives, exactly, and what cross street, Roman not familiar enough with the city to give Imogen accurate directions, and his so-called home being in a slightly more housing-focused area than Imogen tends to frequent.
Still - she gets him home. She drops him off and leaves immediately afterwards.
The good doctor's good deed for the month is done.
[Imogen Slaughter] (man, as I get tired, the mistakes! they are multiplying!)
"Do remind me," she says as she starts
[Imogen Slaughter] (ah crap. I didn't even fix it right. I GIVE UP YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN)
[Roman Turner] "Roman, just think, Greeks and Romans. I am Roman."
He reminded her as they drove along and when she got him home, he climbed out of the car and resting his hands on the top of the doorframe, leaned in to say.
"Thank you Ma'am for the ride, conversation, lovely view and beautiful company."
He had been soaked in her scent the entire ride and it clung to him like ghostly fingers now. He was going to need a shower, bad and right now he was afraid to touch the soap, let alone wash himself.
"Until next time. Adios."
[Imogen Slaughter] "Goodnight," she says, simply, leaning over to lock the door before pulling away from the curb, accelerating down the street.
[Roman Turner] He sighed as she drove out of sight with her scent lingering in her wake.
"Wow....."
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